Dominion of the Moon

by Kostas Krommydas

  He turned to go, but I stood there, staring at the cliff and the creek further ahead. No matter how hard I tried to pull my gaze away from the dismembered bodies, I could not. From the corner of my eye, I thought I caught a movement. My heart skipped a beat and I leaned forward to catch another glimpse. Was that a woman in a white dress, slipping into the small wood at the edge of the creek? It was an impression so brief, so fleeting, that I could not be sure if it was real or a figment of my imagination, an attempt to save myself from the guilt welling up inside me. A sharp whistle made me jump, and I turned as casually as I could. If what I had seen was real, I did not want anyone else to notice it.

  Three years later, Thessaloniki

  * * *

  In the small library, I heard the elderly professor call out my name, and I jumped up. My legs shook imperceptibly, as if I were about to walk before a firing squad rather than receive an archaeology award. I had been lucky enough to unearth a dark suit in a second-hand clothes store. Slightly worn and frayed, it nonetheless added some formality to my appearance.

  I had almost become accustomed to the stifling air of the sealed-off room. It must have been months since any sunlight had penetrated the windows. Fear and isolation kept even fresh air at bay. The joy of receiving the award, however, stopped me from dwelling on sad thoughts for too long.

  A small number of people, mostly archaeologists and academics, surrounded me. I felt sad that my uncle had not lived long enough to be here tonight. My love of archaeology was all due to him. A historian, he kept a large library at his house that had formed the foundation of my education.

  While I waited, I stared down at the old scars on my hands. Τhe tragic day the guerillas had tried to turn me into an executioner came to my mind. I had managed to make my escape shortly afterwards, during a skirmish with a decimated group of Germans. Seeing them execute soldiers who wished to surrender, I had flung down my gun and run away as fast as my legs could carry me. Hours later, I found myself in Grevena, where at first I hid in a cave, then a village. There, at an impoverished farmhouse, I managed to dull my hunger. The family took pity on me and let me stay.

  I lived with them, in hiding, for a long time, helping them toil the fields and tend to the few animals they still had left. When it became clear that things were calmer, I began the long journey to my uncle’s house in Thessaloniki, where I could resume my studies, which had been interrupted by the war. My mother and older sister lived on Samothrace after the departure of the Bulgarian troops. My father passed away during that time and I did not even manage to attend his funeral, news of his death reaching me ten days too late.

  We had all become accustomed to the idea of death, as if it were a common occurrence. We did not flinch, even when a life was lost unjustly. Survival instincts forced people to overcome any loss quickly.

  I had not seen my father in years and was deeply pained that I could not be there for the funeral. However, even if I had received news of his death on time, I still would have been unable to return to the island—traveling was restricted at the time, making any journey difficult. Nonetheless, the goodbye I had not been able to whisper by his deathbed still haunted me.

  A few days ago, I received the latest letter from my mother and sister. Thankfully, they wrote they were well. I could not wait to see them again, even in the present, impossible circumstances. Perhaps this award would prove to be my passport to my beloved island, even for a brief return.

  In the few seconds it took to cross the room and receive the award, thoughts of the executions nearby came to complete my thoughts of the dead. Summary trials had led many people before a government firing squad. They were put to death like cattle taken to the slaughter.

  I could not believe that the civil war still raged on, three years after the departure of the Germans. Vengeance was like a mother repeatedly giving birth to children, who gave birth to other children in turn, hungry for the absurd joy brought by the death of people who only held different ideals.

  I caught a glimpse of the edge of the table, where my artwork proudly stood. It had earned me the award I would soon be holding in my hands.

  The face I had sculpted on the plaster cast of the Winged Victory of Samothrace reminded me of the woman who had disappeared forever down the cliff, among the corpses of the executed. No matter how fervently I hoped she had survived, I was aware it was unlikely. All that remained were her features, forever etched in my memory. I had reproduced them on the missing part of the statue, which had been discovered in pieces, headless, long ago. Trying to reproduce the original image, I had completed it by adding the unforgettable face of the otherworldly creature that had crossed my path back then. It fit so well, as if she were the ancient woman whose likeness the sculptor had tried to capture thousands of years ago.

  No one knew about that horrifying day in the ruins of the village. I had not spoken about the few days of my enforced recruitment. I kept it all buried deep inside me, haunted by it at night. I kept dreaming that I was carrying out the orders of that monster of a man and executing the woman, firing my rifle in front of everyone, while their manic laughter echoed in my head like the screeching of the Furies.

  I had reached the lectern. A round of applause and the loud voice of the white-haired professor made me reach out and receive the award.

  “Andreas Stais,” he said, “on behalf of the committee judging the antiquities contest, I am pleased to award you first prize, and the gift that comes with it, for your reproduction of the statue of the Winged Victory. Congratulations!” He removed his glasses, shook my hand warmly, and handed me an envelope.

  He then opened a small wooden box and took out a medal hanging from a silver chain. I caught a glimpse of my name on its surface as he placed it around my neck.

  “A small, symbolic gift, so that you may always remember this moment,” he said, and took a step back.

  I was so nervous I felt my throat constrict. I could not utter the slightest sound. I bowed shyly a few times, thanking those present. When the applause died down, the professor urged me to open the envelope that had accompanied the certificate. Its worn corners betrayed that it had been used numerous times. The tightly folded piece of paper inside was white and shiny. I took it out and carefully unfolded it. Everyone’s gaze was fixed on me as I read the short message and the president’s signature at the bottom, my eyes welling up with emotion. From this day forth, I would be reporting to the regional branch of the Greek Archaeological Service. It was based on the island of Lesbos and supervised Greek archaeological expeditions in the Northern Aegean and Thrace.

  When the war had forced me to abandon my studies, I never thought my dreams of excavating ancient treasure, artifacts which bore the marks of Greece and waited for the hand that would bring them to the surface, would materialize so soon. No words could adequately describe the magical feeling of knowing that the last time anyone touched what you were holding was thousands of years ago. The magical feeling of a discovery that could be shared with the whole of humanity. Unfortunately, I was fully aware not everyone thought this way. Too many finds had been destroyed, stolen, or even sold to the four corners of the world.

  My uncle had mentioned in the past that countless artifacts had disappeared over the years. The main cause was war—one broke out every century or so, plaguing Greece and the rest of the world. It was common for many discoveries to be exploited for political purposes. The Turks had given away priceless Greek artifacts as if they owned them. One of those was my beloved statue of the Winged Victory, the Nike of Samothrace, which has resided in the Louvre since 1884. The piece of paper I held in my hands was my passport to the past, a world filled with symbolism, mystery religions and cults, ceremonies, and rituals. Rituals such as those that had taken place on my home island of Samothrace in ancient times and which I so wanted to research …

  A loud noise from the street directly below us interrupted my thoughts, and spurred some of the men in attendance to dash to a large window and tim
idly peek behind the heavy curtain. Their frightened faces made us all stop what we were doing and rush to the other windows.

  A car slowly drove up the street dragging something behind it, the pedestrians impassively watching the gory spectacle. When the corpse came into view, a bundle of rope and flesh and torn clothes, my knees buckled. I turned away from the window, feeling all my reserves of strength were finally depleted. Although it was impossible for any smell to reach the room, the stench of death filled my nostrils once again. I was almost certain that if I kept seeing such things, I would go crazy. There was no end to the savagery of people, on both sides.

  Still fresh in my memory was a story doing the rounds these days, of a young man who, returning from the front, had butchered the woman he was due to marry simply because her family was on the opposite side. I remembered Euripides’s words, framed on a wall in this room, and sought them out. They fit the moment perfectly. The ink had faded with the passing years and the pale words now read:

  “Stronger than lover's love is lover's hate. Incurable, in each, the wounds they make.”

  Euripides, Medea

  Trying to lighten the mood, the professor urged us to step away from the windows. “Let’s not allow anything to cast a shadow on this important day. And let us hope that people like dear Andreas will leave this madness behind them.”

  The president of the committee, who I had not managed to greet until that moment, crossed the room to join me. He congratulated me, then turned toward the window and spoke solemnly. “If I did not know how much you love Samothrace I would not be telling you this now, but I have been informed that American archaeologists will be resuming excavations on the island soon. We would like you to lead the Greek team, if you agree. Your tenure would officially begin there. You will be working under their supervision and I think you will do just fine.”

  The joy his words sparked briefly chased away bad memories and filled me with gratitude. Not only would I be doing what I loved, I would be commencing my career in a place I adored. As a young boy, I used to sneak inside the ruins every chance I got. There, I would watch the archaeologists and workers excavate the Sanctuary of the Great Gods. I would secretly wander among the ruins and try to imagine what it must have looked like back then. I would climb on the marble pedestals and pretend to be a statue. Whenever someone caught sight me, I would run away like a thief, fearing punishment. I was frightened by everything I had heard about the headless statue of the Winged Victory and always tried to guess where it might be. Local lore had it that someone had stolen it and kept it in their house, separating it from its body …

  We posed for a commemorative photo and, a few minutes later, we all realized it was time to leave. We slowly walked toward the narrow wooden staircase that led to the exit and onto the main road. I hoped that more savagery would not be waiting on the other side. Alas, the sounds coming from outside foretold more horrors.

  Small frames depicting the busts of the Ancient Greek Sages and their words lined the small hallway leading to the exit. Just before following the others onto the street, I had enough time to read the words of Aeschylus, a sinister sign of what I was about to witness …

  “Act for act, wound for wound”

  Agamemnon

  October 1948, Komotini

  * * *

  No matter how hard I tried to scrape off the mud that clung to my boots and weighed my feet down like lead, I failed. The men accompanying me faced the same problem. We had spent the past two days struggling to determine whether statues had been hidden in Komotini in an attempt to save them from the Bulgarians’ looting. The Archaeological Service had received information to this effect and sent me here first to salvage what I could.

  The informant also asserted something else, something that had spurred me on to accept. He had heard that the missing head of the statue of the Winged Victory might also be buried here. Although highly unlikely, I still had to investigate the matter. No one knew what had happened to the missing head. Like a compass, my desire to find it determined my course. Inside me, the figure of the woman in the white dress had merged with the statue. Not a day passed by that I did not think of her. I hoped she had survived, even if I never saw her again.

  We had set up a small, makeshift camp outside the town of Komotini and thrown ourselves into battle against the relentless rain and mountains of mud. The soil was very soft, a sign that it had recently been dug up, then shoveled back in. A bad sign; someone had beaten us to it.

  With hands heavy as ploughs, I pulled the mud out of the large ditch. Sleep-deprived, we somehow found the strength to withstand the hostile conditions and long hours. We were committed to our cause, heart and soul. The drizzle seeped through our overcoats, piercing the cloth and condensing against our skin. The sun was setting and it was time to accept that our efforts had been fruitless. Whatever had been buried here was now gone.

  Someone had probably shared the same information with the Bulgarians, who reached this spot long before us and collected what we were now looking for, exhausted and in vain. It had been a race against time and, sadly, we were too late. I fumed at the thought that the occupiers had violently snatched so many treasures—entire museums and priceless private collections—from their birthplace.

  Even harder to bear was the fact that the information most often came from the Greeks themselves. I hoped that, even at this last moment, we might be able to salvage something. Information pouring in from all over the country told of the looting that had followed the German invasion. Every one of the stories filled me with rage. More than anything else in the world, I wanted to bring back everything that had been taken out of the country. Against all my principles, I would be very harsh toward anyone who had demonstrably participated in the crime that had taken place in the shadows of the Occupation. The Archaeological Service had already made official protestations after the end of the war and managed to secure the repatriation of some of the stolen artifacts, but it was a drop in the ocean compared to all the priceless treasures that had by now been dispersed all over the world.

  One of the workers called out that he had found something and needed help. We all dropped what we were doing and, filled with excited anticipation, rushed to his side. A large piece of marble was visible beneath a thin layer of muddy soil. With our hands, we started to dig as fast as we could, scraping the mud away to see what lay beneath. My distress could not have been greater had I been trying to pull a man from the soil so he could catch one final breath.

  The rain became our ally, the drizzle helping me wash away the mud, slowly revealing the white flesh of sculpted marble beneath. I could feel the small stones in the soil pierce the underside of my fingernails, but the desire to know what lay buried spurred me on. When I saw blood drops on the white stone, I looked at my fingers. The soil trapped under my nails had turned into a thick red mixture that slowly dripped over the cracks of my skin. As soon as I realized it was nothing serious, I resumed my task. It did not take long to perceive that the piece of marble was the base of a statue.

  The others, sensing my despair to discover anything, had stepped aside. Smaller, broken pieces of marble slowly appeared around it. Absorbed as we were, we did not notice the man creep up and stand on the edge of the small ditch.

  I saw him first, as I turned to throw away a handful of mud. I froze. Behind him, a group of men stood guard, stock-still in the rain, which was now getting stronger and soaking us from head to toe. His face frightened me, reminded me of my brief, coerced recruitment at the end of the war. I had heard of the deeds of a man they called Captain Lambros. The locals said that the guerilla leader was tough but fair. The nearby presence of the army had not discouraged this group of guerrillas from fighting the government. As for us, we ignored their conflict and worked hard, doing what we could to prevent even more antiquities falling prey to looters.

  I stood up, mud covering my entire front. Rainwater dripped from my wet hair down my face to the edge of my nose, where it trickled
like a faulty faucet. My feet slipped in the mud, and it was a struggle to keep my balance. I looked around, and shivered. The hole we had dug looked like a mass grave waiting to be filled.

  The guerilla raised his rifle. “Why are you rooting around in the mud like pigs?” His voice sounded hollow through his thick beard.

  “Archaeology!” I shouted. “We have a permit to excavate. From the Archaeological Service.” I raised my arms, trying to prevent any unfortunate misunderstandings. My three companions, awkwardly and without being asked, followed suit. Wasting no time, I added, “We received information they buried antiquities here, to hide them from the Bulgarians. We are looking for them.”

  “Put your arms down,” he barked, bringing his rifle to rest on his shoulder. He examined us for a while, pondering his next move. One of his men came near him and whispered something in his ear. He turned to look at me and said, “You are too late. They found it months ago. The Bulgarians smashed the bases, took the statues, and loaded them onto their trucks. Didn’t the locals tell you? They only left what they couldn’t carry. We found a broken statue head in the gully behind the mountain the other day. Someone had smashed it to bits.”

  I shuddered at his words. “Where is it? Can you show us the place?” I waited anxiously for his reply.

  “The gully is filled chest high with water now, fast as a torrent. The pieces must already be in the sea,” he said with a laugh. He gave us another appraising look, and then trudged back to his companions. Following his lead, they slowly walked to the woods. They had more pressing concerns than a group of lunatics struggling in the mud.

  Night was beginning to settle over the clearing, and I decided it was time to stop our excavation. I tried to shake the mud from my hands along with my disappointment, and told the workers we were done for the day. We would have another look in the morning, if the ditch did not flood overnight.